Protect Me
by ohyourlipsaredelicous
Summary: A short piece on Mr. Gold's thoughts when Belle walked through his door in the Finale.


**this is a short drabble written for the season finale of once upon a time; .. enjoy!**

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He'd dreamt of that voice for so long. it played in his mind like a music-box he couldn't quite turn off. Either because had no desire too, or because he was terrified that if he did: he would never hear it's hauntingly sweet tune again. It had plagued him in his sleep ever since the curse was enacted and they had all been brought to the land of the Queen's design. Some days he wished for it to stop- to permanently halt that innocent dove's melody which brought back so much less then the comfort he sought, and yet so much more then the pain he deserved: that he was sure he could not bear it much longer. But some days, that pain was all that was keeping him living. No, living was not the correct word to describe his halted existence. 'Surviving' was better suited.. for he had nothing left to live for. Nothing, par the same thing that tore his dove from him in the first place.

So when said voice was heard in a mere 5 metre radius, he was solidly convinced that his this must be the next stage. The curse was wearing off with Miss Swan now permanently in town, and now the things he had convinced himself were left behind in his old world: was somehow bleeding through into the new one. 'A temporary side effect', he ensured himself, although not convinced this side effect could prove of any relief to him. If anything, it was worse then the constant symphony of lost utterings inside his head.

The voice spoke again. No, not again. The same sentence. A quick sentence. He hadn't even noticed the words had formed a sentence: for all of this voice left in his head were broken pleas and words as sharp as shards. He identified his name within the mixture of words. No, not his name. THIS name. The name he had been somewhat humourously given as some form of mockery by her Majesty. The name sounded wrong. The words tainted.. _clumsy_. Like when one cannot think of an appropriate word and so uses a worse one to suffice. The voice itself even sounded doubtful when uttering the name. His mind quickly found what the voice was asking and what suitable reply to give it. Somehow is felt wrong. It felt wrong that somebody who resembles this particular voice so closely would choose him of all people to interact with, and he could feel the anger and frustration rising. The beast itching to be free. He turns briskly, bracing his mortal self for the Beast's wrath on this poor creature: who's only wrong-doing is sounding like a broken song.

But the wrath however, never arrived. Instead the terror-some Beast withholding it, shrank to the size of a mere dormouse.

The voice. No, not just the voice anymore. Never just a simple voice. How could he have forgotten? How could he have forgotten that the voice; the very same voice which tore at his wounds and glided through his poisonous memories, was that of his saviour? And that it belonged to her. Not the woman in his nightmares: the one with treacherousness words and false affection.. but the woman who strode into the lion's den with her head held high and pretentious golden ball-gown. His eyes met those he'd stared into what felt like a thousand times previous, and yet he still felt himself trying to memorize every stroke of colour inside them. His gaze landing on her mass of unkept hair for only a second; waves of longing itched at his fingertips to stroke the fallen spirals, this proving to be a second too long. Everything was wrong. But yet everything was right. He could not make sense of it. She was here, of that he was certain. But her mind; her brilliant, exquisite, beautiful mind.. was not. As hard as he studied the ocean of entwined emotions carried in her eyes: he could not see in them the woman he once knew. Her eyes told of a long solitude, of all of the hours and days and _years_ she must have spent alone and most of all, of imprisonment. Her expression no longer held that incredible smile which could once light up a room if not several, which was now just a mere footprint in his memories. She was a ghost of her past self but, dear god did he care: because she was alive. His little Belle was alive and standing only a few yards away from him. Touching distance.

_Touching._

He had to touch her. Just to make sure. To make sure this was not some perpetually cruel trick his mind; or worse- the _Queen's_ mind, had concocted for him. Reaching out with his soft, beige, foreign human hand, he touched the cheap material of her jacket. Solid. Soft.. but solid. In no way was she imaginary. She was_ here_. She was _real_. She had called his _name_- not the right name, but his all the same. Fake or not, his name had been on her lips. Those he longed to kiss, to tell her.. to _show_ her his regret and sadness and all the emotions he could never say. He just needed her to know. Realizing he may have spoken a few dazed words a few seconds before, his attention; or more likely the impatient Imp's attention, snapped back to reality.

'I was told you'd protect me'

_Protection_. Somebody has sent her to him for protection. Somebody in this town, somebody he had most likely been either cruel to or had been plainly unkind to: sent his.. his.. beauty.. to him. For a split second he wracked his brain for somebody in this damned town he may be in good fortunes with. After a few moments realizing it didn't matter, he did the only thing he felt he could do. Forgetting his leg, forgetting his composure, and most of all forgetting his past: he stepped forward and enclosed his arms around his own broken Belle. He would never let her go. Not as long as there was breathe in his body he would not let her go. Not again. Never again.

'Yes.. yes i'll protect you'


End file.
